Of Angels
by D. R. Auchula
Summary: Christine delighted in stories of angels, but what happens when your Angel has hellish secrets? Modern AU, EC and RC.
1. One: Prologue

_A/N: Hullo, all ye people of FFN. This here is my first phic right here, feel free to tell me I suck. This is both E/C and R/C, because there aren't enough of those._

_I have no beta, so your reviews are gold to me_

_Mandatory disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story; I am merely forcing them to do my bidding. Moohaha! I also don't own the paragraph about Little Lotte; I ripped that off Gaston Leroux._

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Christine Daaé loved music with every bit of her heart and soul. Of course, that's hardly surprising, considering the sort of life she had.

From the very moment she was born, her life revolved around music. Her mother died when she was very small, (Christine being the small one of course. Her mother was of quite average size.) And indeed Christine possessed nearly no memory of her. Her father, a passionate musician himself, was left to raise this little girl on his own. So he did exactly what anyone would have expected from him: he taught her everything he could about music. She knew the musical alphabet before the English, and as she grew was able to read music with as much ease as the fairytales she so loved.

Daaé was one of those very fortunate people, perhaps you have met one of them, who has travelled to nearly every place worth mentioning on a globe. He was a famous violinist, who performed for the leaders of lands the world over. However, when the day was done, he could almost always be found in a smaller, quieter venue under a false name. He would fiddle away and his small daughter would sing along with a voice like an angel.

Unfortunately, children do not stay children forever, and Christine soon grew to an age where she was required to begin an education of some sort. She had been heartbroken at the prospect of leaving her father, and begged him not to force her to go. After long deliberation and quite a bit of crying on Christine's part, Daaé had agreed to let her remain with him, and he would give her an education himself.

Although terribly bright, she was somewhat absent-minded in that she always seemed to dwell in a world of her own, that no one else could see or hear, except perhaps her father. And, for the most part, she was. On the rare occasions she could not be with her father, she kept herself company dreaming of the stories he told. Daaé was an exquisite story-teller. He spent many a long winter night spinning fairytales for his lovely daughter.

He told many stories, but far and above Christine's favourite was that of Little Lotte and her Angel of Music. The story began:

"Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her hair was golden as the sun's rays and her soul as clear and blue as her eyes. She wheedled her father, was kind to her doll, took great care of her frock and her little red shoes and her fiddle, but most of all loved, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music."

Christine had been enchanted at the prospect of hearing an Angel in her sleep. She said a prayer every night, pleading the Angel to come to her, but each morning awoke with no Angel's songs to speak of.

"Daddy," she'd said one morning, "Will I ever hear the Angel of Music?"

"Why, of course," he'd said, drawing her up into his lap. "Every truly great artist is visited by the Angel of Music, and that is how they receive their genius. You must keep your eyes and ears open."

Christine opened up her eyes wide and cupped her hands behind her ears. Daaé laughed and tickled her as she squealed with delight.

But," he said, as he would often say, "Remember, child, that not all Angels have wings."

At first this had confused her. "What do you mean, Daddy?"

"Well," he'd explained, "sometimes Angels come down from Heaven, and walk the earth."

Christine's eyes had opened wide and her mouth fallen open in amazement. Angels on earth? Perhaps she would meet an Angel! Perhaps she already had. How would she have known? A frown marred her pretty features for a moment. "But Daddy, how do you know they are Angels?"

A smile had illuminated his face. "You know they are Angels by their deeds. Angels come to answer prayers, or teach us lessons."

This idea had fascinated Christine, and she made a point to look for Angels everywhere they went.

Christine enjoyed her life, but unfortunately it was not to last for long. When she was only ten years old, her father came down with a terrible illness, and was soon residing with the angels he so loved to speak of. His death caused a dramatic change in the girl. She became passionless, deadened, withdrawn. From the time she was born, she had a certain light about her that attracted people; now that light was all but extinguished. When one saw Christine Daaé, they wished to know her, but once they spoke to her, they soon found that she was in fact painfully mediocre and wholly unremarkable. It was as close to invisibility as she could manage, and she was quite content with it.

Because she had no family, Christine lived with the Valerius's. They were an older couple, and although they had no real children of their own, they'd taken care of many children over the years, children who had no other home to go to. Daaé was one of these children, and they had always regarded Christine as a sort of grand-child, and were more than happy to take her in. Good guardians they were, but unfortunately they did not share Daaé's opinions on his daughter's education, and before long Christine found herself in a local school. Christine had no desire for friends, and all who were drawn to her she drove away with her façade of mediocrity. All but one, that is.

Meg Giry was a singularly extraordinary girl. She was the type of girl that made it her business to know every one of her fellow students, as well as all the details concerning their personal lives. She did, however, truly care about the people she chose to call "friend", and it was perhaps that very aspect of her personality that was the reason she became a staple in the life of Christine Daaé. No matter how many times Christine brushed her off, no matter how many times she denied anything was wrong, no matter how many times she pretended to be dull, Meg refused to give up on her, and it was this persistent friendliness that proved her sincerity to Christine. The two were best friends from then on. Meg provided the unyielding affection Christine needed and she in turn gave Meg a sort of deep and understanding friendship that was absent among her other, rather shallow acquaintances.

Undoubtedly the most momentous change in young Christine was the loss of her music. Granted, a girl such as Christine could never fully separate themselves from music, but it could never be said she did not try her hardest. She'd barely sung a note since her father died, and only ever in private. Meg was the only living soul for a long time that was graced with her voice, and that was entirely an accident. She'd come to Christine's house unannounced, and walked in on a lovely duet with her radio. Meg gave her hearty applause, causing her to turn a violent shade of red and stutter incoherent apologies. It had taken quite a bit of time, but Meg eventually convinced her to join their school choir. She dramatically maintained that it would be a crime against humanity in general if Christine kept such a magnificent voice to herself.

Meg had a talent for persuasion, and it was indeed upon her persuasion (although some would find it more accurate to call it "belligerent nagging") that Christine even applied to the Lehrau University of the Arts at all. Truth be told, the only reason she did was to make Meg shut up about it. She put very little conscious effort into the audition, and consequently was very surprised when she learned of her acceptance. This had caused quite a row between the two friends, Meg emerged the victor, saying that Christine's father would have wanted her to keep music a part of her life. For all that Christine told herself since his death, she couldn't disagree.


	2. Two: In Which Things Begin

_A/N: Whee, I already have two reviews!_

_**Tink20: **My first ever reviewer, yay! You are my hero! Thank you so much, getting a review is truly the most wonderful feeling in the world._

_**Kchan88: **Thank you SO much, I'm glad that you like it. Hopefully I can keep up to par._

_You guys have no idea how encouraging it is to get a review. And I still am beta-less, so constructive criticism is amazingly wonderfully helpful to me!_

_…Compliments don't hurt either._

**Disclaimer: I still don't own any of these people. Not even Gabion. I stole his name from Leroux; he was an acting-manager of the Opera.**

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Chapter 2: In Which Things Begin

"Christine!"

The girl in question gave a small chuckle at the sound of Meg's voice, clearly audible through the hubbub of the departing class. Meg always did have a natural aptitude for projection. Sliding her note-book back in her bag, she found her friend-cum-room-mate waiting for her at the door.

"Next time perhaps could you could call a bit louder? Really, I could hardly hear you!"

"Har-dee-har. And here I was, about to invite you to lunch! Unappreciative lout!" Meg gave her a crooked smile. "I suppose I could be the bigger person here and still ask you if you want to dine with the rats and I."

"I would if I could, but I've got to run. Mr. Gabion said he wanted to talk to me." She gestured to the nonexistent vocal teacher.

"About what?" Meg raised an eyebrow, and Christine shrugged.

"He didn't say."

"Oh." Meg frowned. Well if you get out soon and in one piece, we'll be at our usual haunt."

"Duly noted." They parted and Christine began her trek to Mr. Gabion's office across campus, almost relieved she had an excuse not to go. The 'rats', as Meg so lovingly referred to them, were a small circle of dancers who had a reputation for knowing everything about everyone. They giggled far too much, and their gossip always got on Christine's nerves. She really didn't give a lick about anyone else's love life, and she knew she wouldn't appreciate anyone twittering about hers. She frowned as she realised she didn't exactly _have _a love life.

_Well, _she reasoned, _if I did have one, I wouldn't want anyone talking about it._

She shoved her hands in her pockets, trying to fathom what Mr. Gabion wanted. Her head spun with a million worst-case scenarios. _I'll bet you've failed, _snickered a small voice in her head. _Or maybe you'll have to leave the school altogether! _ Christine frowned. He had sounded rather grim about it…

Her sensible side clucked its tongue at the voice. _Don't be ridiculous, _it scolded, _it's probably nothing to worry about._

_No one asked you, _the voice protested bitterly.

"I'm going mad," muttered Christine. She soon found himself at his office door, which her stomach greeted with some unpleasant gymnastic feats. She took a deep breath, and rapped twice on the door.

"Come in," a muffled voice instructed her. She found Mr. Gabion seated at his desk, papers scattered haphazardly about his desk. "Oh, Christine! Good, I was hoping you could come. Please, have a seat. I want to talk to you about something."

* * *

"He said I should find a private tutor." Christine was nearly drowned out by an outburst of laughter originating from the next table. The usually calm café was now packed with students escaping the torrents of rain outside. The downpour had come quite suddenly, and thus Christine was rather damp as she slid into a seat next to Meg and the rats. 

"Well, it couldn't hurt, I suppose." Meg frowned pensively.

"My voice, no, but it will sure be a strain on my wallet." She closed her eyes, savouring the taste of the coffee – she and Meg's mutual weakness – and trying not to think about the expense of a tutor. Prices were ludicrous for voice teachers nowadays, and she knew full well she could never afford one.

"Good point. Why did he say you needed one, anyway?"

"Well, he said vocally I'm fine right now, but I could be really great with training and practise beyond what I can get here." He was right, really. Raw talent was fine when she was younger, but she was dealing with real singers now. Some of them had been training their entire lives. If she was going to make it, she'd need to be able to keep up.

"Oh. So, are you going to?"

"What?"

"Are you going to find a tutor? Pay attention, dear."

"Well, there's no harm in looking around, I suppose." Christine fell into thought as the conversation turned to other matters. Knowing them, it was probably something very juicy. That was one thing that Christine and Meg never saw eye-to-eye on; Christine thought talking about other people like that was wrong, and Meg thought it was jolly good fun. Still, Christine couldn't help but smile as she watched her lively friend converse. Meg had been one of the constants in her life for quite a long time; they'd gone through their school years practically joined at the hip. Best friends and confidantes, they told each other everything, be it dark secrets, silly quirks, secret crushes, hopes and dreams. Meg was the only person who knew any of Christine's secrets. In fact, she was the only person who really knew anything about Christine at all. She was not at all social, and although this severely limited her circle of friends, it had also graciously kept her free from having any enemies.

Until now.

Carlotta Gudicelli absolutely, positively, utterly and entirely detested her, and poor Christine couldn't for the life of her figure out why. She had been unfailingly nice to her, for being nice, if not exactly friendly, was Christine's way. Upon confiding this to Meg, the little dancer had told her that Carlotta saw Christine as a threat.

"I mean, look," she'd said. "You're both very pretty girls, not to mention the two best sopranos in the class. She hates that the guys are always gawking at you and not her." That had made Christine blush. Honestly though, she thought to herself, couldn't Carlotta see she had no interest in any of those guys? Come to think of it, she'd never taken in interest in any guys. Sure, she'd had the odd crush or two, but who hasn't? She'd always been convinced, against Meg's intense protestation, that no guy would be interested in her, and thus never gave them a second thought. They were crude, loud, and immature creatures, and most of the time she had nothing to do with them.

Of course, Christine was a romantic at heart, and she often dreamed of the day she'd meet her knight in shining armour. Handsome, chivalrous, and charming, one day he'd whisk her away from her ordinary life, and they'd live happily ever after. She chided herself for indulging in such childish fantasies, but she couldn't stop herself from half-believing it. Perhaps, sometimes, stories could come true.

* * *

It was a cold, dreary September morning when Christine set about finding a tutor. A rather optimistic person by nature, she told herself that by the end of the day, she would find the perfect tutor, and somehow find a way to pay for it. And now it was a cold, dreary September afternoon, and she sat slumped on a bench, rejection weighing heavily on her. She'd looked all over the city, and everyone she found was more than happy to take her on – until they came to the matter of payment. She wrapped her arms tightly around her body, as much of an attempt to console herself as a way to ward off the cold autumn air. A curtain of chestnut curls fell over her face as she stared down at the ground, and hot tears stung her eyes even as she scolded herself for letting it get to her like this. _I was an idiot to do this in the first place. I knew I couldn't get a teacher without money. _Knowing she'd soon fall to pieces if she didn't busy herself with something, she quickly stood from the bench and set out at a brisk pace toward the campus. She allowed herself to think of nothing but her plans for the rest of the day as she focused on the rise and fall of her shoes. Once she got back, she'd do some studying, and then maybe she and Meg could go— 

Her scheduling was interrupted as she walked headlong into someone, sending them both crashing to the ground. She let out a small yelp of pain and surprise as her chin and elbow crashed into the pavement.

"I'm sorry! I wasn't paying attention, oh I'm so sorry!" She apologised profusely as she scrambled to her feet, helping dust off the stranger as he – for she soon saw that it was indeed a he – rose to his feet. He was perhaps thirty-something, with olive skin and dark, but friendly features.

"It's quite alright, Miss. Are you hurt?"

"Nono, I'm fine. I really, really am sorry, I'm just distracted… I'm having trouble finding a voice teacher and--" she frowned. "Why am I telling you this, you don't care. I'm sorry; I'll just be going now."

"It's really okay." He gave her a kind smile. "Good luck finding a teacher."

"Thanks"

And with that, they went their separate ways.


	3. Three: From the Moment I First Heard You

_A/N: Reviving this again… why not, right?_

**Disclaimer: Still don't own any of this.**

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Christine barely paused to drop her things before allowing herself to collapse onto her bed and close her eyes. The Bowling For Soup song that was blaring out of Meg's stereo lessened in volume to more of a dull roar.

"Soo, how did it go?"

"Idowannatalkabouit." Christine burrowed her face into the pillow.

"That awful, huh?"

"I was an idiot to even go out there." She opened her eyes to find Meg seated next to her, looking sympathetic. "How could I have expected any teacher to take me without a penny to my name?"

Meg frowned. "Don't you have some sort of inheritance or something? I mean, your father _was _famous and everything."

"Famous, yes, but he always believed that having more money than necessary would give us big heads or something. We always had enough to live comfortably, and the rest of what he made stowed away in case of emergency. A lot of that went to medical bills and funeral costs. I have enough for tuition and general expenses, but I can't possibly afford lessons at the prices they ask nowadays, and with my course load I don't have time for a job."

"Oh." Meg murmured, and they both fell into silence for a few moments, before Christine pulled herself upright.

"Alright," she said, determination in her voice. "I won't sit here and wallow in self-pity. I have better things to do. I have tests to study for, homework to do."

"Charity Gala to sing for," Meg interjected.

"Yes, Char—what?!" Christine's eyes widened. "Oh my God, that's tonight isn't it?!" Every year the local theatre held a huge party, complete with performances by the local artists. The proceeds went to a different charity each year. Christine, being the kind soul that she was, had volunteered to sing for them this year. She silently scolded herself. How could she have forgotten? She'd been preparing for weeks for this. She supposed the teacher trauma today had made it slip her mind. Looking at the clock, she was relieved to find that she still had enough time to shower and properly prepare before she had to be there. She groaned at she dragged herself off the bed.

* * *

The house looked darker than he remembered it. Granted, it had always been rather menacing – its size and state of disrepair seemed to give it that "haunted mansion" look as seen in the majority of cheesy horror flicks – but it had never loomed over him in quite that way before. Passing it off to the dreary weather – anything could look unfriendly under such a dark sky – he located his key and shoved it into the lock with an ease of long-time habit. The familiar abandoned foyer greeted him, the foot-prints from his last visit still dimly visible under the thick layer of dust coating the room. He followed them, not paying mind to the myriad of other abandoned rooms along the corridors, until he found himself at a dark wooden door. Again locating the proper key and unlocking it, he pulled open with a creak.

It was cold. It was always cold. He shivered as he closed the door behind him, cautiously making his way down the stairs into the thick blackness.

"Generally, it is considered appropriate to knock before barging into another's home." The voice seemed to have no origin, but it contained a note of displeasure. Several notes, in fact. Perhaps even a chord or two. He could hardly suppress the shiver that ran down his spine. That voice… there was something very unnatural about it that he could never get used to. One did not hear such a voice with their ears… but with their soul. It wasn't an altogether comfortable sensation, but he had to admit there was a terrible beauty in it.

"And a lovely afternoon to you, also. Surely you don't mind an old friend dropping by?"

"Oh, of course not, my dear friend." Sarcasm joined the displeasure. "And here I though you'd forgotten about little old me."

"You aren't exactly an easy person to forget, Erik." A thick silence fell between them, and he rubbed his arms. "How do you live in this cold?"

"Next time, bring a coat. Now I hardly think you've come to inquire about my preference of temperatures. Why are you here?"

"Just checking up on you, that's all." He looked about, his eyes having adjusted to the darkness, for the most part. The normally neat room was in a state of general disarray. The same could be said of its inhabitant. "We should go out tonight."

Erik raised an eyebrow, lip curling in a sardonic smirk. "Daroga, are you asking me on a date? I'm flattered, but I'm afraid I have to stay home and wash my hair. Perhaps another time."

"No, Erik. You've been holed up in this blasted house for far too long. You need fresh air, a change of scenery for a night."

"I really don't think--"

"You have no choice in the matter. Clean yourself up and meet me upstairs. We are going to the Charity Gala, whether you like it or not."

* * *

"How," Erik asked, turning to the other occupant of Box Five, "exactly, did I let you talk me into coming to this bloody…thing?"

"You didn't. You had no choice in the matter."

"Ah, yes." Erik fell into silence for a moment as he sunk back into his seat, listening to the pianist on stage. He winced as she made a painful mistake. "Daroga? Have I ever told you quite how I hate you so?"

"Oh, shush, it's not that bad. They've sounded rather nice." Erik glared at him as she made another mistake. "Well, most of them…don't worry; there are only a few performers left." The girl ended her piece, and Nathan clapped politely for a few moments before checking his programme. "Christine Daaé," he read aloud. "Maybe she will be better? Hm…Daaé. The name sounds familiar. Wasn't there a musician by that name? A..."

"A violinist," finished Erik. "One of the best of our time. Died nearly ten years ago, I believe." He watched her come onstage.

He had to admit, she was quite beautiful. Pale blonde curls framed her porcelain-white skin, blue eyes sparkling under the stage-lights. She looked something like an angel. She closed her eyes, and began to sing. Erik sat up, his expression softening behind the mask. She was rather painfully untrained, but he did not find himself cringing at the sound. She had a near-perfect instrument . . . a crystal clarity of tone, perfect pitch, and no weakness in either register. But she seemed almost reluctant to use it; there was no passion in her song… only a sort of deep sadness. He was sad to see her song end, and stared dazedly at the stage for the duration of her applause. Nathan turned to him, grinning smugly.

"I told you they aren't all bad,"

"Daroga, she was..." The next performers had come onstage, but he paid them no mind, Christine's song still ringing in his mind.

"Ah yes, now I remember her…" Nathan said after a pause. Erik looked at him out of the corner of his eye, brow raised.

"You've met?"

"Yes, earlier today. Nice girl. She was rather distraught, you see, she was having trouble finding a voice teacher and she ran—"

"What?!" Erik fought to keep his voice at less than a shout. "How could anyone reject such a beautiful…" he trailed off, pausing for a moment. "Perhaps you could help her." Nathan raised a confused eyebrow, almost invisible in the dark. Erik continued, "You could tell her of someone who would be willing to teach her, free of charge."

"Are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting?" He did not wait for an answer. "You are a bloody fool, Erik. The risk… I mean, if she…"

"I'm well aware of the risks, Daroga."

"You can't afford--"

"I," said Erik coolly, "will decide what I can and cannot afford to do."

Nathan sighed. "I can't help you again."

"I highly doubt I will need your assistance, daroga. Except, of course, telling Miss Daaé about her new teacher." There was a long silence before Nathan spoke.

"Fine… but I still think this is a bad idea," Nathan protested, but Erik said no more.

* * *

"Miss Daaé!"

Christine let out a sigh as she turned to face the speaker. No doubt another audience member come to congratulate her on her performance. All the compliments made her uncomfortable, but she smiled and said "Thank you" nonetheless, counting the minutes until she could leave. She saw, however, that the speaker was none other than the man she'd run into – literally – just hours earlier. She smiled and let out a small laugh.

"Why, imagine running into you again, Mr…."

"Kahn. Nathan Kahn." He shook her hand warmly. "Listen, about finding you a teacher…I think I may be able to help."

Christine raised an eyebrow quizzically. "What sort of help?"

"I brought a friend of mine to the performance tonight. He was… well, blown away by your performance; he wants to teach you. He's quite good…a master of all things musical."

Christine sighed inwardly. She could not possibly pay for the skills of a musical maestro. "I'm sorry Mr. Kahn, but I can't afford--"

"Oh, you don't have to worry about that. He is willing to teach you for free; he only asks that you keep it a secret."

Christine frowned. This whole thing seemed a bit strange; it was simply too good to be true. She did not know either of these men, and had no reason to trust them. Who could say what they truly wanted, if there was a teacher at all. If Mr. Kahn had brought him to the performance, why did he not come to speak with Christine himself?

"I know this sounds awfully suspicious," he said, apparently noting her disbelief. "But it's not as strange as it sounds. He is just a bit… eccentric. He wants his privacy, that's all. I promise you, I am telling the truth." He raked his hand through his hair nervously before digging into his pocket. "Look, you can trust me. It's my job to help people." He held out an object; Christine recognised it as a police badge. She took it gingerly out of his hand, inspecting it closer. It seemed real enough, although she'd never actually seen a real one before. She handed it back to him, satisfied of its authenticity.

"Listen," she said, "this is really great, and I appreciate it, but I need to think on it a bit. Can I possibly get back to you?"

"Sure," he said, giving her his card. "Just call me when you've made up your mind. Thank you very much." He tipped his hat to her, and left.

* * *

Three days later, Christine still had not called Nathan Kahn. She picked up his card from where it lay on her desk. She'd called the police station, and there was indeed a Nathan Kahn. But something about this still seemed funny. Surely, though, it wouldn't hurt to just meet this teacher? She hesitantly picked up the phone and dialled the number. It rang for a long time, and Christine contemplated hanging up. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, after all—

"Hello?" She heard a voice on the other end.

"Hello, Mr. Kahn? This is Christine Daaé, from the other night."

"Oh, Miss Daaé! I've been hoping you would call. Have you made up your mind about my offer?"

"Yes…I guess…I guess I could…meet with him." Her stomach gave a tiny twist, and she hoped she hadn't made the wrong decision.

"Oh, wonderful! Are you free tomorrow?"

She closed her eyes as she thought over it. "Er…not 'til 6."

"Six is fine. He really wants to meet you."

"Where are we meeting?"

He gave her the address, which she wrote on the other side of the paper with his number. It seemed familiar…now she remembered what it was. "The old Baladere mansion? I thought that place was abandoned." The old house was said to be haunted, many of Christine's friends had sworn they heard eerie music coming from it late at night.

"And haunted, I'm sure you've heard. The stories people can make up….No, it's not abandoned, and certainly not haunted. Erik simply doesn't go out much."

"Erik?"

"Your teacher. Okay, so I will see you tomorrow at 6, I'll be there to introduce you."

"Okay. See you then."

"'Bye." Christine heard a click and then silence. She slowly pressed the "TALK" button on her phone, and set it lightly on her desk. Tomorrow she would meet this mysterious maestro, this Erik.


End file.
